


Split my world into pieces

by det395



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:16:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/det395/pseuds/det395
Summary: One of Dan and Phil's greatest fears in the world, prominently outspoken from them, is home invasion. And maybe, as an extension, losing each other.





	Split my world into pieces

_Ur home??_

Dan stares at the text from the corner of his eye, not moving his head from the vibrating train window.

 

_? no_

 

_I can hear noises, tell me that’s you_

He tries to shake the feeling as soon as the inklings of anxiety twist his stomach. He breathes out of his nose like he’s amused instead.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time Phil had an overactive imagination, seeing things move in the blur of his poor eyesight, mistaking the settling of his family home for ghosts moving around, feeling his nightmares as though they’re life. It wouldn’t be the first time Dan held his hand tight, acting brave but undermined by the curiosity of Phil to scope out the situation every time. _You’re the one that dies first, the hot bimbo that goes exploring,_ he always says.

 

_No. train gets in soon tho. Neighbours?_

_No someone in the house, you’re not pranking?_

The blood leaves his head in an instant and makes him momentarily dizzy. He resists the urge to say _are you sure? Tell me you’re being an idiot right now_.

 

_DON’T go check it out, hide and I’ll call the police_

_I’m hiding in the ensuite_

_I love you_

He doesn’t reply, he just presses the dialling phone against his ear. The call doesn’t go through, he pulls back and bites his lip hard. He has fucking WIFI but no cell service in the underground.

_You call 999_ he texts quickly.

 

He leans forward so he’s on the edge of his seat, shaky with the rocking train as he looks out into the dark tunnel, searching for the glimpse of light that signals his stop.

 

Dread settles deep, standing the hair on his arms but he tells himself again that he has anxiety, not good intuition. He never has good intuition. It might be the landlord, despite the illegality of showing up after 20:00, or it could be a friend, despite none having the spare key, or it could be a fan who followed them, but is that even a safe outcome?

 

He stands up abruptly. A few heads turn towards him questioningly and he doesn’t know why he’s up either. He yanks up his backpack and walks to the door, staring out, itching to push through. He feels sick, the bile is at the back of his throat and the train is small and the panic is rising up his chest like a physical pain, this familiar feeling with no comfort of overreacting. He breathes in and hears a whining noise from his own throat so he leans into the door window with darkness on the other side.

 

There isn’t a reply. He shakes his leg almost violently, his mind filling with the worst images he can muster. He tries to remember how long ago last stop was. He wasn’t paying attention.

 

 _I love you but you’re going to be fine_ he sends, staring and waiting for an answer. _Tell me you’re okay still_ between the lines.

 

His eyes blur against the screen of text the longer he stares. Light suddenly flashes in his eyes and his adrenaline spikes.

 

He strains, clenching his jaw as he puts his hands palm up on the door, the creaking of the brakes loud in his ear. It slows at an aching pace until he can squeeze through the doors and he’s finally out and he’s running, knocking his shoulder against the crowds on either side of him and eliciting curses. He doesn’t look back, he just barrels through.

 

The underground has never felt so long, while he sprints with long leaps and pumping arms. He couldn’t have even imagined running this fast before, especially not through crowds of shocked faces. He barely watches his surroundings as he dials 999 and stares at his unresponded text.

 

He yells his address in the phone like a mad man and barks back breathless one-word answers. Send a fucking swat team, anything, he wants to say.

 

He taps his oyster card and he’s out into the dark night, running free and wild with every lamp post he passes flashing in his vision. He goes the same way a taxi would when he refuses to walk. His eyes zero in on the corner that turns to their apartment, blocks away but coming closer with every second. The people he pass stare at him in wonder, gawking.

 

His breath comes out in gasps and the backpack yanks on his shoulders every time he bounces until he finally turns the corner and nearly skids out with the momentum.

 

He focuses his eye on red and blue flashing lights, the familiar London sound of sirens much closer than usual, and suddenly has to force his creaky joints to run the rest of the way.

 

An officer steps in front of the steps at the site of him and his own voice is aggressive and loud, saying “that’s my fucking apartment, _move,_ that’s my fucking—”

 

He has to step forward to keep his aching legs from buckling under his relief. Phil steps out of the front door, a police officer immediately behind with her hand steadying on his shoulder. His eyes are wide and peering into Dan’s immediately, as though he’s pleading, and Dan leans forward with his hands on his knees and just stares at him unblinking, finally wheezing in a deep breath.


End file.
